"Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah. It makes absolutely no difference what people think of you." -Rumi
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AIM IM with BBanzon.
9:15 AM
Me: dad its krystal i have internet now
Dad: horay for you how you doing girl?
Me: gooooood im going to work this afternoon, and my cousins kim and maaan are here. they stayed with me this weekend
Dad: great keep you in company be sure to take care your self carefully be vigilant hope all things going swell
Me: i will be vigilant and careful – going to eat now, i love you!!!
Dad: we miss you so much and j.r. oke I love
Me: bye bye talk to u later!!
Dad: goodnight bona petit
Two reasons why I love my Dad:
1) “Be vigilant.”
I love it. Talking to my dad is like talking to a mid-century English man… Who has a deep Filipino accent.
2) His attempt at colloquialisms like, “swell” and “bon appetit.”
In one sentence the man sounds like Sherlock Holmes and in the next he sounds like Julia Child.
I can’t even imagine the amalgamated morass of pop culture and American multiculturalism that he has absorbed over his 30+ years in the American “melting pot.”
This morning on the phone, my Dad said to me, “As long as you are enjoying life and having fun we’re happy.” Then I hear my Mom exclaim, “Fun!?” before snatching the phone back and saying, “Your Dad is still asleep. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
We share a laugh about my artistic sloth. Nothing like moving out, living my own life, and doing what I want to strengthen the relationship I have my parents. I’m a lucky gal.
AIM IM with BBanzon.
9:15 AM
Me: dad its krystal i have internet now
Dad: horay for you how you doing girl?
Me: gooooood im going to work this afternoon, and my cousins kim and maaan are here. they stayed with me this weekend
Dad: great keep you in company be sure to take care your self carefully be vigilant hope all things going swell
Me: i will be vigilant and careful – going to eat now, i love you!!!
Dad: we miss you so much and j.r. oke I love
Me: bye bye talk to u later!!
Dad: goodnight bona petit
Two reasons why I love my Dad:
1) “Be vigilant.”
I love it. Talking to my dad is like talking to a mid-century English man… Who has a deep Filipino accent.
2) His attempt at colloquialisms like, “swell” and “bon appetit.”
In one sentence the man sounds like Sherlock Holmes and in the next he sounds like Julia Child.
I can’t even imagine the amalgamated morass of pop culture and American multiculturalism that he has absorbed over his 30+ years in the American “melting pot.”
This morning on the phone, my Dad said to me, “As long as you are enjoying life and having fun we’re happy.” Then I hear my Mom exclaim, “Fun!?” before snatching the phone back and saying, “Your Dad is still asleep. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
We share a laugh about my artistic sloth. Nothing like moving out, living my own life, and doing what I want to strengthen the relationship I have my parents. I’m a lucky gal.
kanto fried chicken: a love poem in five movements
I.
sittin’ quietly
in a KFC
in a developing country
developing thoughts on the
Mickey D’s
among the trees
across
the street.
crowded jeepneys
drivin’ by looking fly
chrome virgens on the dash
painted jesus ridin’ past
blond hair n’ blue eyes
starin’ at
the unmoving traffic
He’s
stuck
in
prayin’ to his Dad
to forgive his sin
of wishin’ he was in
a private SUV
with the aircon on
blastin’ english songs
‘stead of this public mass
transport
breathing in soot
watchin’ rainbow jeeps
with his mama on the hood.
II.
the smog settles.
revealing schoolgirls on cell phones
texting secrets
to illicit suitors
on scooters
ferrying tourists to
and fro
the megamalls and barrios
where the deal’s a steal
when you play
be it ang mga batang kalye
sneaking away with
your wallet and cell
or a haggled discount price
over your proud prize
an authentic tropical
conch shell
or
your indigenously
meticulously
woven banig to hang on your
loft’s wall
while someone must be missing
a mat to fall
asleep on
It’s wrong
Isn’t it – I think?
while gnawing on
a chicken wing.
III.
lounging comfy
with Colonel Sanders
watching pusacals meander
domesticated predators
eyein’ the tasty thighs,
freedom fries
and ice cold Sierra Mist
this
domesticated preda/tourist
missed
during weeks of cultural immersion
a version
of trying to understand and belong
i think
can that be so wrong?
as i Purell my greasy hands.
IV.
the strays scatter away.
i eye the last fry and
someone takes my tray to
bus it for me
it’s weird to see
the service industry so
clearly.
i pause before i go.
V.
sitting anxiously
at a global chicken chain
urging my brain to
retrain
past the shame and blame
and heat and rain—
lookin’ past the glass exit
and the doorman with a gun
there are cocks
under cardboard boxes
hiding from the sun
their cry for the day to begin
lost earlier in
the wind
i caught ringing in my ears
along with my fears
this morning.
i count my fare slow.
handling each peso and centavo
while watching lolas
futilely sweeping the
uneven concrete
past carts selling buko and calling cards
the memory of the morning
bittersweet
i rubbed my eyes awake to
new skies and then
only to find myself in
the familiar again
and again
and again
unable to exit this air-conditioned
fluorescent haven/hell
conditioned to crave the
smell
of country comfort
cheap fast bright clean cool
the traffic light turns red.
jesus stops and above his
airbrushed head reads:
Quiapo
i get up and go.
kanto fried chicken: a love poem in five movements
I.
sittin’ quietly
in a KFC
in a developing country
developing thoughts on the
Mickey D’s
among the trees
across
the street.
crowded jeepneys
drivin’ by looking fly
chrome virgens on the dash
painted jesus ridin’ past
blond hair n’ blue eyes
starin’ at
the unmoving traffic
He’s
stuck
in
prayin’ to his Dad
to forgive his sin
of wishin’ he was in
a private SUV
with the aircon on
blastin’ english songs
‘stead of this public mass
transport
breathing in soot
watchin’ rainbow jeeps
with his mama on the hood.
II.
the smog settles.
revealing schoolgirls on cell phones
texting secrets
to illicit suitors
on scooters
ferrying tourists to
and fro
the megamalls and barrios
where the deal’s a steal
when you play
be it ang mga batang kalye
sneaking away with
your wallet and cell
or a haggled discount price
over your proud prize
an authentic tropical
conch shell
or
your indigenously
meticulously
woven banig to hang on your
loft’s wall
while someone must be missing
a mat to fall
asleep on
It’s wrong
Isn’t it – I think?
while gnawing on
a chicken wing.
III.
lounging comfy
with Colonel Sanders
watching pusacals meander
domesticated predators
eyein’ the tasty thighs,
freedom fries
and ice cold Sierra Mist
this
domesticated preda/tourist
missed
during weeks of cultural immersion
a version
of trying to understand and belong
i think
can that be so wrong?
as i Purell my greasy hands.
IV.
the strays scatter away.
i eye the last fry and
someone takes my tray to
bus it for me
it’s weird to see
the service industry so
clearly.
i pause before i go.
V.
sitting anxiously
at a global chicken chain
urging my brain to
retrain
past the shame and blame
and heat and rain—
lookin’ past the glass exit
and the doorman with a gun
there are cocks
under cardboard boxes
hiding from the sun
their cry for the day to begin
lost earlier in
the wind
i caught ringing in my ears
along with my fears
this morning.
i count my fare slow.
handling each peso and centavo
while watching lolas
futilely sweeping the
uneven concrete
past carts selling buko and calling cards
the memory of the morning
bittersweet
i rubbed my eyes awake to
new skies and then
only to find myself in
the familiar again
and again
and again
unable to exit this air-conditioned
fluorescent haven/hell
conditioned to crave the
smell
of country comfort
cheap fast bright clean cool
the traffic light turns red.
jesus stops and above his
airbrushed head reads:
Quiapo
i get up and go.
Apparently, that’s what I have to look forward to during my time in the Philippines. Not the invaluable experience of being immersed in another culture, or getting to finally know and appreciate fully my background and heritage, or the intellectual stretching I will undoubtedly go through in my studies, or even the simple fact that I’ll be participating in theatre…
I’ll be much too busy fearing for my life – from terrorists, thieves, drug smugglers, malaria, corrupt immigration officials, typhoons, death by no air-conditioning, greedy cabbies, child pickpockets, constipation, mosquitoes, smog, salmonella-by-street-vendor, anti-government rebels, dengue fever, pusacal rabies, and crazy Manila drivers.
This is what I’ve been hearing since I got the Fulbright. From the movie industry to CNN Breaking News, from the L.A. Times, to acquaintances, friends, and even/especially my own family.
And I’m fucking terrified because an irrational part of me believes them! After being bombarded from every angle with fear and violence and mistrust and media whirlwinds and family experiences and ingrained racism and colonial mentalities and American xenophobia –-
I am only one psyche against systematically perpetuated fear.
Not only am I educated, but I’ve been there before. Not only have I been there before, but I have family living in Manila now. And yes, they may be living a life different than mine, with thoughts and threats and paranoias and comforts different that what I am used to (especially after spending four years in happy Northampton), but probably not a life too removed from the day to day in South L.A., or the Bronx, or Miami – or any large city with its riches and its slums and its wi-fi cafes and its strip joints. My father never talks of ever getting robbed or held up when he lived in Manila. But I know it happened when we lived in South L.A. Then again, my father didn’t sweet talk customs officials to save his ass getting out of L.A. like he did scrambling to get out of the Philippines in the early seventies. But he did move his wife and young daughter out of L.A. and to the ‘burbs for a better, safer life.
And yes, I also know that the historical context of the U.S. is different. We don’t fear a government uprising, and the threat of anti-establishment guerillas is not nearly as real. But the day to day is not the same as what we see on our bloodiest-news-gets-the-best-ratings or our blockbuster-anti-terrorist-racist-movie-trailers.
I watch The Bourne Ultimatum and sit through several trailers with CGI bombings and plot lines about international terrorism. Then I come home to CNN headline news covering a massive typhoon sweeping houses away in South Asia. I check my email and in my inbox I read an email from a beloved cousin happily declaring that she doesn’t have class the rest of the week due to the typhoon. While I know that some people worry about losing their houses to this storm, and not celebrating the loss of class time, her email grounds me in her reality – a reality of going to class everyday, of sitting in bars with friends, of public transportation and shopping and homework. Not one of fear. Especially the kind of fear that we in America like to perpetuate about the Other countries.
Then I come home and talk to friends who, in the nicest possible way and don’t mean any harm, but haven’t been to other countries ask me if there is running water and electricity and malls in Manila. Three words: MALL OF ASIA. It’s not even called the mall of the Philippines people – it’s the Mall of ASIA.
Then, the advice from my family is the most complicated and fraught part of it all. Here I am, Miss Privileged Fil-Am going to this place for my cultural and intellectual expansion wanting to “learn more about my heritage” (what a snot). I’m returning to the country that to my parents represents what they left behind: poverty and struggle. I feel like the rich white girls who work on farms because “Farms are SO COOL!” Where to most of the world, farms aren’t “cool” – they are places of hardship and labor and subsistence.
An aunt gave me a pair of granny panties with pockets so that I don’t have to keep my cash in my jeans or purse, because apparently people slash your thighs with knives to get to your wallet.
Hold your bag in front of you.
Don’t get into a taxi alone.
Watch your wallet and cellular.
Do give out U.S, dollars for tips, they’ll like that.
Don’t give out U.S. dollars for tips, they’ll take advantage of you.
I am writing this because I am afraid.
But, I am also hungry to know different than what I know now.
Apparently, that’s what I have to look forward to during my time in the Philippines. Not the invaluable experience of being immersed in another culture, or getting to finally know and appreciate fully my background and heritage, or the intellectual stretching I will undoubtedly go through in my studies, or even the simple fact that I’ll be participating in theatre…
I’ll be much too busy fearing for my life – from terrorists, thieves, drug smugglers, malaria, corrupt immigration officials, typhoons, death by no air-conditioning, greedy cabbies, child pickpockets, constipation, mosquitoes, smog, salmonella-by-street-vendor, anti-government rebels, dengue fever, pusacal rabies, and crazy Manila drivers.
This is what I’ve been hearing since I got the Fulbright. From the movie industry to CNN Breaking News, from the L.A. Times, to acquaintances, friends, and even/especially my own family.
And I’m fucking terrified because an irrational part of me believes them! After being bombarded from every angle with fear and violence and mistrust and media whirlwinds and family experiences and ingrained racism and colonial mentalities and American xenophobia –-
I am only one psyche against systematically perpetuated fear.
Not only am I educated, but I’ve been there before. Not only have I been there before, but I have family living in Manila now. And yes, they may be living a life different than mine, with thoughts and threats and paranoias and comforts different that what I am used to (especially after spending four years in happy Northampton), but probably not a life too removed from the day to day in South L.A., or the Bronx, or Miami – or any large city with its riches and its slums and its wi-fi cafes and its strip joints. My father never talks of ever getting robbed or held up when he lived in Manila. But I know it happened when we lived in South L.A. Then again, my father didn’t sweet talk customs officials to save his ass getting out of L.A. like he did scrambling to get out of the Philippines in the early seventies. But he did move his wife and young daughter out of L.A. and to the ‘burbs for a better, safer life.
And yes, I also know that the historical context of the U.S. is different. We don’t fear a government uprising, and the threat of anti-establishment guerillas is not nearly as real. But the day to day is not the same as what we see on our bloodiest-news-gets-the-best-ratings or our blockbuster-anti-terrorist-racist-movie-trailers.
I watch The Bourne Ultimatum and sit through several trailers with CGI bombings and plot lines about international terrorism. Then I come home to CNN headline news covering a massive typhoon sweeping houses away in South Asia. I check my email and in my inbox I read an email from a beloved cousin happily declaring that she doesn’t have class the rest of the week due to the typhoon. While I know that some people worry about losing their houses to this storm, and not celebrating the loss of class time, her email grounds me in her reality – a reality of going to class everyday, of sitting in bars with friends, of public transportation and shopping and homework. Not one of fear. Especially the kind of fear that we in America like to perpetuate about the Other countries.
Then I come home and talk to friends who, in the nicest possible way and don’t mean any harm, but haven’t been to other countries ask me if there is running water and electricity and malls in Manila. Three words: MALL OF ASIA. It’s not even called the mall of the Philippines people – it’s the Mall of ASIA.
Then, the advice from my family is the most complicated and fraught part of it all. Here I am, Miss Privileged Fil-Am going to this place for my cultural and intellectual expansion wanting to “learn more about my heritage” (what a snot). I’m returning to the country that to my parents represents what they left behind: poverty and struggle. I feel like the rich white girls who work on farms because “Farms are SO COOL!” Where to most of the world, farms aren’t “cool” – they are places of hardship and labor and subsistence.
An aunt gave me a pair of granny panties with pockets so that I don’t have to keep my cash in my jeans or purse, because apparently people slash your thighs with knives to get to your wallet.
Hold your bag in front of you.
Don’t get into a taxi alone.
Watch your wallet and cellular.
Do give out U.S, dollars for tips, they’ll like that.
Don’t give out U.S. dollars for tips, they’ll take advantage of you.
I am writing this because I am afraid.
But, I am also hungry to know different than what I know now.
